Blood and Sand (2 page)

THE BEGINNING

1
 

The Present

“Harrison.”

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, ignoring the voice.

“Harrison?”

I don’t answer and grumble in annoyance.

“HARRISON!”

The voice thunders through the enclosed space of the airplane cabin, causing all of its occupants to jolt. Grunts of annoyance are joined by murmurs of disapproval within the cabin’s first class section.

“What?” I cry out, a little startled and confused. “Are we there already?”

I stretch, scratch my forever five o’clock shadow, yawn, and smack my dry cotton mouth away with my tongue. I sit up and look for a stewardess wanting to ask for a drink, when I realize who was shouting at me. I glance to the seat across the aisle from me and see its occupant.

A man in his late-fifties with wavy salt and pepper hair, exactly like mine minus the color, stares at me like I just kicked his dog. From the look on his face he’s obviously annoyed with me for some reason.

“You’re kidding me right, Harrison? You fell asleep in the middle of our discussion,” he complains.

“Oh, right…Sorry, Dad.”

I apologize, but honestly I don’t really mean it and I’m pretty sure he knows. I’ve made it pretty obvious that I’m not happy about being pulled away from my very relaxing vacation to go traipsing across the desert to God-knows-where to find God-knows-what.

“Look, Dad, I know this adventure stuff is your thing and you love it but—” I don’t get to finish, instead I get interrupted by the pilot over the intercom.

Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats and buckle in. We seem to be entering some unforeseen turbulence.

Not a second after he says the word
“turbulence,”
our plane bucks like a pissed off bull at a two-dollar rodeo and I go flying. I hit the cramped aisle between the rows of seats and thump the back of my head on something hard.

“I guess I should have buckled up,” I mumble. I look over and see the hard-cover travel camera case that just broke my fall and silently curse its existence. I groan and attempt to stand, but only get to my hands and knees before the plane bounces a second time. I’m thrown forward onto my chest, getting the wind knocked out of me. I heave a heavy, labored breath and roll onto my back.

Not wanting to try again I whisper, “Oh stewardess…I’m just gunna stay down here…for a little while longer. Can I have a pillow, please?” And lay my head back on the floor with a thunk.

I take another deep breath and hear…laughter?

I can hear someone having a nice chuckle at my expense, which tends to boil my blood. After remaining flat on my back for another few seconds doing my best not to pop up and punch the laugher in the mouth, I open my eyes and see my dad. He’s leaning over his armrest with a very noticeable grin on his face. My anger deflates. I laugh on the inside a little because I’d probably do the same if it was him floundering on the floor of a plane traveling high above the Atlantic.

I give him the same grin back and I sit up, but just when I think I can stand—after not feeling any turbulence for about thirty seconds—the plane rolls right and I’m thrown into my dad’s legs. I take a knee to the temple and my eyes blackout for a split second.

I’m beyond pissed now and leap to my feet heading with purpose to the cockpit. I contemplate the expletives I’m going to throw at the idiot pilots, when suddenly the cockpit door is flung open by a very frightened, very pale woman.
Must be the stewardess I was looking for,
I think. Something has her spooked. I charge past her thinking something has happened to the pilots, instantly forgiving them for the ass kicking I just endured.

Only…the pilots are fine, frantically fighting for control over the aircraft, but never-the-less fine. It’s only when I look past the pilots and stare through the windshield that I see what has everyone spooked. Four enormous water spouts are churning through the Atlantic.

I look at the co-pilot, “Um, that’s not normal, is it?”

He looks up at me his face covered in sweat and doesn’t say a word. The look of absolute terror on his face is answer enough.

The cyclones seem to be engaged in a choreographed dance from hell. They are zigging and zagging in perfect harmony with one another-like they are being manipulated by someone with a joystick. There’s only one problem, they’re dancing the twisted tango right in our direction.

The Captain and his co-pilot start going through some fly-boy jargon I don’t understand, but it basically sounds like they are going to try and change course and go around the storm.

Good plan,
I think.

The pilot adjusts course and we bank to the left, attempting to skirt the anomaly. But, just as he makes the correction the storm follows us. He corrects again, this time to the right. The tornadoes follow again, but this time they pick up speed and turn up the intensity. The four massive twisters have now grown by about another twenty-five percent, their wind speeds increasing.

I’m about to give my two-cents, when the tornadoes come together and form a wall of water made up of four swirling funnel clouds. It’s like we are looking at four ancient pillars churning through the ocean coming straight at us. Instead of coming up with something intelligent, or at the very least reassuring, all I can say is, “We’re screwed.”

CRA-KOOM!

From out of nowhere, a bolt of lightning cuts through the biggest of the four twisters, striking it from top to bottom straight through the vortex in its center leaving a free falling pillar of rain. The initial destruction looked like a column of stone had burst from its core, like something detonated from within.

CRA-KOOM!

CRA-KOOM!

CRA-KOOM!

But, before we have time to comprehend what just happened there are three more quick strikes and the remaining tornadoes are gone. Just like that.
Poof
.

The resulting explosion causes a spectacle to take form before our very eyes. An aerial tidal wave is shot straight into the sky where thousands upon thousands of gallons of water gets shot out in every direction…including ours.

2

The pilots blank, not responding, so I do the only thing I can think of. I lunge over the Captain and push in the yoke, making us dive.

The Captain snaps out of it, understanding my thinking and joins in. We shove hard dropping the aircraft underneath the main wave of water, still getting hit with a healthy dose. Thankfully, it was close to the amount of a heavy rainstorm, something these guys deal with regularly.  

We stare in silence watching the rest of the free falling wall of water blow away with the ocean breeze and get swept away back from whence it came. I don’t pretend to be a meteorologist on my days off so I’m just going to file this one into my
freaking weird
category and head back to my seat.

Before I leave the cockpit, I pat each pilot on the shoulder, tell them good job and that I appreciate them not getting me killed.

I go to turn away, but the Captain glances up at my obviously beat and disheveled exterior with a confused look on his face.

“Holy shit son. What the hell happened to you?

Feeling like I just went a few rounds with a brick wall, all I can do is laugh.

A few minutes later I exit the cockpit. Everything and everyone seems to be fine. Everyone except for the stewardess it appears, but Dad is seeing to her just fine.

Dr. William Boyd is a lot of things, but a being ladies’ man is definitely
not
one of them. He’s a very bright man and handsome in an “active dad” kind of way I guess. Except, the best part of his physical anatomy is his brain and that just makes him awkward, especially around anyone of the opposite sex. He would generally steer the conversation into his wheel house, world history, and then…off a cliff.

I try to squeeze by them, but I can’t get through. So I say the only thing that I know will break up this little pow-wow.

“Give it up old man, you’re twice her age.”

I don’t know what my Dad’s face looks like, but the desired effect is obvious, he moves and lets me pass.

I take my seat and attempt to shut my eyes. Instead, I get a hand across the back of my already pulsating head, the knock I got from the camera case even left a lump. I flinch, the person hitting the aforementioned knot, and mutter an incoherent curse, but I know who it is and sigh.

“Was that really necessary, Harrison?”

He’s the only one who calls me by my given name, especially whenever I upset him, which is to say, all the time. Personally I like
‘Hank.’
It’s short and sweet and doesn’t sound as vanilla as Harrison.

I try to hold back a smile, but fail miserably.

“I wasn’t hitting on her. I was just making sure she was okay!”

By the tone in his voice I think he is trying to persuade himself into believing it. Now it’s his turn to hold back a smile, of which he is also unsuccessful.

We both give a hearty laugh laced with exhaustion. It’s one of those laughs where you’re way more tired than the joke was actually funny.

“But seriously, Dad, what the hell happened out there?” I say, pointing a finger towards the front of the plane. “I’ve never heard of, or seen anything like that before. That was something out of an Abrams movie or from the front page of the tabloids.”

I can see he’s trying to come up with an answer, but he’s just as confused as I am.

“Son,” he finally says. “Do you know why we are going where we’re going?” he asks.

Okay, not the answer I was looking for, but he has my attention none-the-less.

“No, not really,” I honestly say. “All you mentioned was a job in Algeria. You have refused to tell me anything else.” Which is the truth. Normally I wouldn’t care where we are going, but in this case he has intentionally dodged the question every time it has come up, which means if I had known I would still be in the Florida Keys being served by scantily clad women, sipping fruity liquored-up beverages with tiny umbrellas.

“I did try to talk to you about it,” he says. “But you dozed off, remember?”

I give him a sheepish grin. Now that he mentions it he did look pretty grim before I nodded off.

“Okay Dad, well, I’m all ears now,” I say cupping my hands around my ears and flapping them like I’m an elephant fanning himself.

This doesn’t get the reaction I was looking for.

“Are things always a joke with you?” he retorts.

That hurt. He should know by now that when it’s all said and done I’m in it till the end, no matter what, but I have to do things my way, which is to say, a little laid back.

I flinch, a little taken back. He must see the hurt etched on my face because he gives me that slight fatherly smile that says
sorry
without having to actually say it.

“Look Dad,” I start, leaning forward all business. “Why are we going to northern Africa?”

He looks down at his hands which are fidgeting nervously in his lap then back up at me. He answers me in the most deadpan look I’ve ever seen,

“Atlantis…we are here to unearth Atlantis.”

3

“Atlantis? You have got to be shitting me!” I bark, taking off my overly abused Detroit Tigers baseball cap. I comb through my matted down hair with my fingers, itching my head in the process. I can’t believe what I’ve just heard.

Dad isn’t too thrilled with my choice of words, but he’s heard worse come out of my mouth. Like that time I jabbed a shovel into my big toe. I must have used every curse word in the English language. I felt
much
better afterwards, but the crew working with us—including my father—looked mortified.

“No, I am not
shitting
you!” he replies.

Hearing him openly curse like that is telling in itself that he is sincere. The man has the foul-mouthed linguistic skills of a ninety year old, saying
darn-it
and
shoot
all the time instead of the ones I’d use.

He unlatches the tray table and reaches into his carry-on, removing a folder and opening it, laying it down. Within the file is a variety of newspaper clippings, printouts and handwritten notes. He grabs a newspaper clipping and hands it to me. I see that it’s dated six days ago and look it over.

“This is a news report of a record breaking sandstorm in southern Algeria,” he says while I read.

I scan the article. I think I saw a blurb about this on the Yahoo homepage and remember thinking nothing of it. The article describes record wind speeds and a massive amount of displaced sand in a localized area of desert a few miles outside of the small town of Djanet. 

“Sounds like a standard weather event to me,” I say. “Huge, but otherwise pretty normal.” I’m so engrossed with the newspaper clipping that I fail to notice the smirk forming on my dad’s face.

I look up and take notice.

“What?”

I see the twinkle in his eye. The look that says,
‘I know something that you don’t.’

He looks over his shoulder, sees that no one is listening and then leans in close to me.

“I have a contact in the area that tells me a newly discovered landmark was uncovered by the storm and that the ruin is not in any kind of withered state. In fact, it doesn’t look
ruined
at all, it appears to be in perfect condition.” He smiles wide, not being able to contain his excitement. “It’s like it was carved yesterday! I’m assuming that since it’s been buried beneath tons of sand, it was blocked from the elements, preserving it.” I’m impressed with this find so far, but not completely buying it.

“Come on Dad, Atlantis?” I ask. I mean he might as well have told me he caught Nessy in Lake Okeechobee. “What makes you think this is the lost city—of which is supposed to be buried underwater not sand.”

He looks up at me with a look of triumph, not defeat, “Do you remember that Indiana Jones game you used to play on the office computer?”

I want to argue that 1992’s,
‘Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis,’
was just that, a game. I’m about to comment but he beats me to it.

“Did you know that game was based on a possible Atlantis location myth?”

He’s got me there.

“Yes,” he says. “The most common answer to the location of Atlantis is under the ocean somewhere, and some even say it’s the island of Santorini, but to some the second most frequent spot is under an area of the great Sahara, specifically south-east Algeria. Now, the rumored site is supposedly under the Tassili n’Ajjer mountain range, but the entrance has never been found.” He takes a sip of water.

I lean forward a little giving him more,
hmmm.

“By the way, the name Tassili n’Ajjer literally translates to
‘Plateau of Rivers’
which suggests that there was once water flowing through the region.” He pauses, the gleam in his eye indicating that he’s about to make his point.

“Now, I think the location is correct, but the entrance is in fact not in the mountains, it’s in an undiscovered tunnel entrance that stretches out into the barren desert, such as the one we’re going to investigate.”

He stares at me obviously in his comfort zone.

Well, at least he’s putting his PhD to use
, I think.

“What makes you think that this newly uncovered site is the way in?” I ask, honestly a little interested.

His eyes light up that I’m actually going along with this and not automatically shooting it down. In the past he and the other Looney Toons at his office have come up with some real far out hypotheses so I would normally have my doubts. Like when Dad and a colleague of ours—a man named Dr. Ben Fehr—thought they found evidence to the location of El Dorado, but then realized their local contact was high on Methamphetamines and tweaked out of his mind. I thought it was funny…Dad, on the other hand, was utterly embarrassed.  

“Because,” he says. “My contact at the site sent me this.” He hands me one of the half-dozen computer print outs.

I look over the full color picture not really understanding what I’m seeing. There are around half a dozen different, but very recognizable languages written on the polished facing. I can’t put my thoughts into words. It’s incredible and yet unnerving at the same time. I have never seen or heard of anything like this before in my time in the field or anywhere else for that matter. I can identify ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, Greek, Chinese, Mayan, and what looks like Sumerian, but the languages are a little off.
Maybe a different form of each?
I think. 

I look up at my father’s shining smile.

“What…How?”

Dad puts the words together for me.

“The WHAT is…” He holds up an index finger ticking off the answers. “This is the only relic anywhere in all of the world to have these languages inscribed on it together. He raises another finger, “Also, did you notice the material that the writing is engraved into?”

I did. It’s a gleaming metal of some kind, which again stumps me completely.

I look up from the print out, “…And the HOW?” I ask, completely shocked at what I’ve seen.

He gives me the biggest Boyd grin I’ve ever seen, then sits back and crosses his legs looking very satisfied.

“The HOW, my boy…is exactly what we are going to find out.”